


This City

by mydrunkjoey



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, Kagakreutz, M/M, Mild Smut, kinda fluff????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2589122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydrunkjoey/pseuds/mydrunkjoey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With heavy bass pounding in his ears, and the effects of six consecutive shots pouring into fuzzy lights dragging across the club, Shinji grabs Kevin’s forearm first. It’s partly instinctual, and partly possessive, like a warning sign that urged Kevin to take responsibility. Which Kevin gladly took— stumbling along as they swerve away from flashing cameras and persistent media. Shinji doesn't know how to feel about the fact that headlines about their leaving would lead to assumptions of continuous bar hopping or “#bestefreunde” outings. It makes nights like these easy, yet so, so, so, hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This City

     Shinji has a lot of questions. His head is pounding, his eyes feel dry, his lips are chapped— and slightly maroon in colour— his legs ache, and he’s shivering. Shivering because the window’s open, and he’s completely bare, with one leg under the covers. The rest of the covers are occupied, rolled up around the larger lump beside him. Unsuspectingly enough, “what happened” isn’t one of the questions he has in mind, because Shinji knows.  
  
     It’s not uncommon to go drinking after a win, even if the day after calls for a 6am training session, the guys always found time to slip in a drunken conversation. (He calls it a conversation, but Shinji simply laughs his way through the confusing language, sped up and slurred.) So it’s Tuesday night at the local club, Auba, Ilkay, and Marco mesh into the crowd, while Milos and Ciro are at the bar. Adrian leaves early, and by the time Shinji gets the fifth shot down, Kevin’s already nudging him into the corner.  
     He’s a good drinker, doesn’t get inebriated easily, acts appropriately (appropriately being that Shinji’s fun and wild, but not stupid— can’t bear to be stupid when Kevin’s life revolves around teasing him for his stupidity) and is capable of reading the atmosphere. Kevin’s a good drinker too, he gets a little red faced, and his movements are a little sluggish— but like Shinji, he acts smart.  
     So when Kevin pulls him aside, and presses a shot glass by his lips, Shinji gets the gist. Even if Kevin says what he’s planning out loud, it isn’t like Shinji will understand. His German is as rusty as his English. (Dare he say, even worse?)  
     With heavy bass pounding in his ears, and the effects of six consecutive shots pouring into fuzzy lights dragging across the club, Shinji grabs Kevin’s forearm first. It’s partly instinctual, and partly possessive, like a warning sign that urged Kevin to take responsibility. Which Kevin gladly took— stumbling along as they swerve away from flashing cameras and persistent media. Shinji doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that headlines about their leaving would lead to assumptions of continuous bar hopping or “beste freunde” outings. It makes nights like these easy, yet so, so, so, hard.  
  
     They always end up at Kevin’s, even when Shinji’s smacking his chest and trying his best to persuade the tall twenty-six year old for a different location, Kevin doesn’t budge. It’s inconvenient for Shinji, having to sleep in a bed that isn’t his own, and adjust to an assumed uncomfortable state of unhygienic bliss for hours. Kevin’s argument, from what Shinji can pick out, is that if worse comes to worse, Shinji’s more likely to fit into Kevin’s clothes, than Kevin could fit into Shinji’s. And in that aspect, his will dies down.  
  
     Usually, the night sky is filled with stars in the summer, Kevin’s windows reflecting every little speck of shine, and his room essentially glowing from star dust. It makes for a good atmosphere, but Shinji isn’t capable of noticing this time around— in fact, he almost forgets about the sky altogether.  
     Unlike most of the girls he’s kissed, Kevin doesn’t need coaxing, and on the flip side, it’s Shinji who stiffens and gets embarrassed. It’s happened enough times that the nerves loosen quicker, and the embarrassment is understandable, and Kevin doesn’t even pick at it— simply flicks his tongue and presses his fingers tighter around Shinji’s waist. Incoherent German and Shinji’s name on parted lips are as attractive as it sounds, and though confused, Shinji’s arms curl protectively around Kevin’s neck.  
     They make it to the bed when Shinji’s ridden of his coat, and white tee, and Kevin’s donning nothing but navy boxer briefs. The thirteen centimetre difference in height results in Kevin draped over Shinji, a long expanse of limbs and pale skin. Shinji on the other hand, is visibly tanned, freckled, and toned— something Kevin seems to enjoy. Even as the lean German drags equally lean fingers over the ridges on Shinji’s stomach, he’s teasing him. Calling him small, calling him a baby, and swatting his thighs when Shinji puts up a playful fight.  
  
     The teasing doesn’t last long, and it gets really warm, really wet, really sharp. It’s nothing like the cliché because Shinji remembers everything, and reacts to everything. When Kevin strokes him quicker, he arches his back, and when Shinji rolls his hips, Kevin bucks forward. It’s a continuous push and pull, lips desperate and hot against each other, and the two of them murmuring in their mother tongues.  
  
     Although he’s been told to feel nauseous about how easy it is, and how the stretch and burn should make him regret it all— Shinji’s here again. Instead of conforming, and feeling repulsed by the sharp pains and the emotional roller coaster that essentially places their friendship somewhere in between “sex friends” and “brothers,” he thrives on it. It makes Shinji feel real, valid, and when their calloused fingers are threaded together, he doesn’t falter to return the emotion. ‘You put too much trust in him,’ he’d been told. Yet Shinji doesn’t see it as naivety, but truly belonging. That without having to be more than this— whatever this is— Shinji’s still something. More than a teammate, more than a friend, and at a place where nobody can touch them.  
     He’d started counting the first few times that their nights grew long, but it grew too quick, and it doesn’t matter how long the wait is in between, Kevin always returns, a warm palm on the small of his back. Even if Shinji has to wait through the flurry of girlfriends. On the flip side, he too has had his occasional heterosexual flings— it isn’t like he’s cut off from the idea of breasts and round butts, but Shinji’s dedicated. Dedicated to the idea of having a place to return.   
  
     It’s almost stressful how good it all feels towards the end, hitting the peak, and being the most vocal he’s been in awhile. (And that includes field time.) Kevin doesn’t really stop, it’s obvious that he climaxes— Shinji feels it— but it’s gradual. His thighs shake and his hips roll slower, and he steadies.  
     He doesn’t know when it started, but Kevin kisses him quickly after, still pulsating inside Shinji like a heartbeat. They kiss for a few minutes, becoming soft and fluid against each other before the taller man pulls out. They laugh, usually at each other’s state, sometimes at Kevin’s messy sheets, and when Shinji’s feeling particularly playful, they prod each other’s softened lengths. It never leads to a second round though— there are better ways to spend the nights together.  
     Because Kevin’s, not necessarily stronger, but definitely larger, he tends to get his way more often. Shinji, being modest by culture, and shy by nature, is on the receiving end of Kevin’s irresponsible pleas. The most common one being ‘sleep right after sex.’ Which isn’t too bad, except Shinji’s uncomfortable and wet. (Both in sweat and in his nether regions.)  
  
     But Kevin coos, his smile contagious and his breath smelling like whiskey, and Shinji melts against him. He forgets about the sky again, legs tangled underneath warm sheets, and eyelids heavy. It’s the blessing of the alcohol and exhaustion that Shinji falls asleep quick. Even when Kevin’s arm gets numb from the head upon it, he doesn’t complain, and the sense of belonging solidifies amongst the thick smell of sex and deodorant.  
  
     So when Shinji wakes up, the thudding hangover and flurry of questions in his head aren’t about how he got here. It isn’t even about why they had gone out of their way and done it— so properly, and so thoroughly. It’s the small things, the miniscule domestic things that keep him from falling asleep, like how they’d get to training without people noticing Shinji in Kevin’s clothes, like what they’d eat for breakfast (if they’d eat at all), like what time training officially starts, and if Shinji’s touches need more practice.  
     With Kevin, it’s easy, and Shinji doesn’t need to think any further, doesn’t need to stress over what they are— or if they even need a label. (They don’t.) Shinji simply belongs. And in a city of 500,000 people, a city still new and foreign to Shinji, belonging is all he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: It's been so long since I've written sex so it's a little half-hearted and I SINCERELY APOLOGIZE. Also I'm getting obsessive over them, and might write another 5,000 fics for my own pleasure. I pray for Shinji and Kevin to be free of ever finding this. Or anyone that knows them personally for that matter.
> 
> Also I'd like to add that if you want to talk to me here or tumblr, please do! My URL is the same as this URL, and I'd love to flail over this ship with others. Or BVB in general...


End file.
